Effectively Drowning
by sweetdetection
Summary: Two-parter. Set the evening before Andrew and Margaret's sham wedding in Sitka. Andrew is coming to realize that, even though he's familiar with every detail of his boss' life, he may not know her very well at all.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTES: **This is set during the afternoon before the wedding day, after the boating incident and the discovery that Andrew's dad has invited Margaret's immigration officer to Sitka. It jumps forward to the night before the wedding as well. It's meant to fill in a couple gaps, just to expand on how Andrew came to realize that maybe marriage to Margaret isn't such a terrible thing. The title comes from Margaret's near-drowning experience and the fact that Andrew, at least in my point of view, feels like he's drowning in this crazy situation. I hope you enjoy it and I would love to hear any feedback you may have about it!

* * *

**Effectively Drowning**

* * *

He said, "Margaret," because there didn't really seem to be anything else to say. She looked up, sheepish, and tried to close the photo album before he realized what she was looking at. Andrew caught her hands. True, the pictures were upside down from this angle, but he would have known them anywhere. They were the pictures from his parents' wedding. He stared down at them and Margaret stared up at him, and her hands fluttered again, nervously this time. Had he been thinking straight, he might have been amused that, for the first time since he'd met her, she seemed human. But his mind wasn't operating like normal.

"She looks so young," Margaret said, and Andrew looked at her, uncomprehending for just a moment. Margaret clarified a second later. "Your mother."

"She was young." Andrew slid his hands into his pockets. "They both were. And poor."

Margaret tried a small smile. "They've really come a long way."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so." He really wasn't comfortable with the subject, but their upcoming Immigration interviews loomed before him like a Nor'easter in his thoughts, and he knew the details couldn't hurt. "Mom came up here during school and ended up being a part of a PETA protest against some of the oil companies. After that dissolved, she backpacked for a while and ended up meeting my dad in Juneau. He was trying to get investors in order to start a small business here in Sitka."

"And she stayed?"

Andrew laughed, and he was looking out of the windows at the wild expanse of this bit of Alaskan coast. "Not at first. But dad…he was a persistent guy. I'm sure you've noticed. He lured her back and they started an empire. Presto."

"And you're the only child?"

"Yes." Andrew shrugged. "I'm sure they would have liked more kids. In fact, I know dad would have loved at least one more boy. But there's just me."

Margaret closed the photo album and stood, smoothing down her clothes. She always did that, ran her palms down her outfit to make sure it was still straight, to smooth out any wrinkles or irregularities. Andrew hardly noticed she did it anymore, although it had been one of those tics that had annoyed the hell out of him when they'd first begun working together.

"So. Tomorrow's the big day." She seemed unsettled by that, more anxious than he was, and it was him that was putting on the sham in front of his whole family. He might have told her not to worry, but the words wouldn't come.

"Yup. Tomorrow," he agreed. His hands were still in his pockets, so he shifted his feet. For a long moment they were silent, and Margaret thought that it was a shame that the still had no idea how to talk to one another. Not like this, anyway, when there was nothing work-related to discuss. She felt so tongue-tied in his presence, especially now, and she tried not to be envious of the apparent ease with which he and Gertrude fell into normal conversation. She remembering seeing them together from what passed as Sitka's internet café, and it had struck her in that moment how isolated she was, not just from her supposed fiancé, but from _everyone._

The silence remained. Margaret took it as her cue to leave. She looked at him and realized again how handsome he was, his eyes not quite on her and his hands burrowed deep down in the pockets of his sweatshirt. She touched her hair, which was still in wild waves thanks to her quick dip in the ocean. Then she began walking toward the hallway that would lead to their bedroom. She turned at the door.

"Andrew?"

He turned to her, his eyebrows lifting. "Yeah?" he said quickly, obviously rousing himself from other thoughts.

"Thank you. For today, I mean. For saving my life." It was not the eloquent thanks she had wanted to say, but he surprised her by giving her just a hint, just the barest hint, of a smile.

"Sure," he said. "Any time."

She disappeared and he shook himself. _Any time?_ That was the best response he could think of? He sighed. _The things that woman does to me._

- - -

He was sleeping on the couch. On the couch. Sure, it was better than the floor, but still. The television droned on and on and Andrew wasn't listening. His mind kept going back to that afternoon, to the sight of Margaret flailing in the water. To her gripping the buoy so tight he could see all the tendons in her hand. She almost hadn't let go.

He squeezed his eyes shut but that made it worse. She'd almost drowned. He may have spent many a late night plotting her downfall in the past, but when faced with her actual death… It scared him. And not just because it meant he'd probably be out of a job. Or that it would have been his fault, since he'd turned the boat. Shouted warning or not, he'd jerked that wheel and sent her tumbling into the icy water. It scared him because, God help him, somewhere in the past two days he'd realized how vulnerable she was.

He hadn't noticed it before. Which was funny, because Andrew had been fairly certain that he knew just about everything there was to know about Margaret Tate. But she had done a phenomenal job pretending that there wasn't a chink in her armor, that she was cold and calculating and probably had a black cat as a familiar. If she hadn't neglected it to death, or tossed it off her flying broomstick.

But he'd been wrong. Margaret was fragile, she was self-conscious about anything intimate and she was lonely. He could feel it coming off of her in waves now, he could see it in the wary way she responded to his family's genuine warmth. She was scared to death of them because they wanted to tuck her into their familial fold. Into _his _familial fold.

She'd all but screamed it at him on the boat.

He'd had a sense of doom since the moment she had grasped his hand and he'd pulled her out of the water this afternoon. Something was changing, it was rolling downhill and gaining speed as it went, and he shifted uncomfortably. Kevin wriggled, momentarily dislodged by the movement, and his tongue lolled out happily as Andrew reached down and stroked his fur absent-mindedly.

Then the dog yipped. After a moment, he followed that up with a bark. And as Andrew sat up a little to see what was disturbing him, he caught sight of Margaret. She was in another set of those ridiculous pajamas, and her hair was loose and wild, and she offered an apologetic smile when she realized he was awake and looking right at her.

"Sorry. Seems I've got the munchies," she said.

"Yeah. No. Sure." He seemed a little unsure. He shifted the dog to the couch and sat up for real. "I don't think we're supposed to, you know…"

He actually wasn't too clear on that bit. His grandmother had separated them for the night and this encounter seemed somehow forbidden. Margaret gave him a smirk.

"Just keep that blanket away from me."

He laughed. Sort of. He was still a little thrown.

She wandered into the kitchen and out of sight, but he could still hear her. She got herself a glass of water and an apple, which she sliced. Then she came back into the living room. Her eyes rested on the TV, and it was an old black and white movie he didn't know the name of. He was too busy thinking that Margaret was usually so minimalist, and her choice of midnight snack was no exception. They both pretended to watch the TV for a few moments, sitting side by side on the couch, and then Margaret shifted.

"Andrew," she said softly.

_Never Andy or Drew. _He tried to picture her calling him Andy and just couldn't. Even now. "Yeah, Margaret?"

"How would you have proposed? I mean, if you had done it for real."

"Hm?" Caught off guard, he turned to study her face, waiting for her to spring some sort of a trap on him. But she was still looking at the TV, her face serious and her mouth soft as she waited for his answer. She was genuinely curious, and embarrassed by it.

"What, you mean if…"

"If I were that special someone you mentioned you were waiting for. I mean--" she laughed here, but it was a little forced, he could tell-- "not that _I _was saving myself. But you know. If…"

"I got ya," he said, lifting his hand and motioning for her to slow down, saving them both from her rather painfully awkward explanation.

"So…how?" Obviously, she wasn't going to let the subject drop.

Andrew thought about it. The first time he'd proposed, and that seemed like a whole different lifetime in a whole different universe now, he had simply gotten down on one knee and asked. But looking at Margaret, and knowing she was a minimalist, he thought that kneeling before her in her very tidy Central Park West apartment simply wouldn't do. It would have to be a simple gesture, but more meaningful than simply dropping down and thrusting a ring at her. He thought of the books she used to publish and the ones he knew she still snuck to the office to read on her lunch break, and he thought of all the things he'd learned about her over the past two days, and he said,

"I would have left you that note, the one with the hotel and the time." He paused again, picturing it. "But not in a decoupage box. Just on your desk. I probably would have waited in the hotel's courtyard in a suit. Not a tux, that's overkill. Just a black suit. And when you got there, I would have taken your hands, and told you how crazy you make me, and how I thought I was getting by okay and then _you_ showed up and I realized I _wasn't_, and then in front of anyone who might be watching, I would have pulled the ring out and put it on your finger before you had the chance to say no. And then I would have asked you."

It was a little too close to the mark. He was able to picture it a little too clearly. She was staring at him now and he was staring back, and her lips were just barely parted, as if she was afraid to trust the sincerity in his voice, and he broke her gaze because he was being slightly too honest with them both.

"Then dinner at the hotel and…" He shrugged. "Probably a trip like this one, without the blatant lying."

"Oh," she said. There was a long silence, and she added, "That sounds…very nice."

Andrew was not used to compliments from her and found himself feeling strangely restless. He squirmed on the couch for a minute and then stood. "I think I need a glass of water."

"Oh. Right, yes. And I should get back to bed before your grandma catches us breaking the rules." Margaret was smiling again, but her eyes were still confused, and she followed him in the kitchen to put what was left of her apple slices into the fridge. Andrew got his glass of water and avoided her eyes. He wasn't sure what was going on with him lately, but it was a strange mix of anticipation and nausea and it was lingering in the area of his stomach.

"Goodnight, Andrew," Margaret said at last.

"Goodnight, Margaret," he replied, for the second time that night, and she disappeared. He set his glass down on the counter and took a deep, steadying breath. He had to get a hold of himself, he had to get his head in the game. After all, tomorrow was his wedding day. There was just one problem:

He was in love with his bride.


	2. Chapter 2

**

* * *

**

**NOTES:** Well, thank you for being patient with me while I wrote this unexpected second chapter! The ending isn't my favorite, but I do enjoy the first three-forths of it quite a bit, and I hope all of you do, too. As always, I appreciate the feedback. But most importantly, I hope you enjoy this!

* * *

**Effectively Drowning**

* * *

Andrew was asleep in her bed. Sleeping. In her bed. Margaret stood in the doorway to her bedroom with a glass of water in her hand and tried not to hyperventilate. His lean, beautiful body was sprawled out across her sheets, his arm tossed out as if he'd reached for her while he was dreaming, and she was absolutely frozen to the spot. Because Andrew Paxton was _sleeping in her bed._

He looked so out of place there, in her tidy, feminine room. But he slept as if it didn't concern him that he was the only masculine thing in the entire place. She set the water down on the nightstand very carefully and tried to decide if she was going to climb back into bed with him. She was afraid she'd wake him up, afraid that she'd get in bed and realize that he really _wasn't_ there, reaching for her. In the middle of the night, it was so easy to think about the obstacles. It was easy to remember that he was younger than her, that they were coworkers. That…well, there were other reasons, she was sure. Even if she was too tired to think of them.

"Andrew is in my bed," she said out loud, quietly, testing the words.

"He is," came a very male, very sleepy voice, and she jumped nearly to the roof. "And he's cold. So maybe, Margaret, you'd like to join him?"

"You're awake," she accused, as if he'd done it on purpose to make her upset. He rolled onto his back and looked up at her, his lips curling slightly at one corner.

"In a manner of speaking," he agreed. He held out an arm for her, surprising her as he always did with his easy acceptance of physical affection. "You coming?"

She climbed into bed, settling against his side.

"Better," he sighed, and he was asleep again within five minutes. How did boys do that? Margaret was envious. She couldn't sleep. Every time she did, she found herself thinking about all the ways things could go wrong. She had some ridiculous fears, like the reoccurring suspicion that she was going to get deported in spite of her legitimate engagement. Some of them were better-founded, like the one where Andrew would leave her because she was so emotionally stunted. But so far he seemed to _enjoy_ her emotional stunted-ness. In fact, it amused him.

She was wondering if he was laughing with her or laughing at her when he was being amused, and in the midst of wondering she fell asleep, curled next to him, unable to resist in spite of nearly sixteen years of practice.

* * *

"What are you burning in my kitchen?" she asked as she stumbled out of the bedroom the next morning. He let the comment pass without remark. He was confident, apparently, in his abilities as a chef. So he continued scrambling the eggs he was making them for breakfast.

"There's coffee," he told her, and she pounced on it. He laughed, and his hair was a mess, and for a moment Margaret seriously contemplated pouncing on _him_, but she was still a little shy in that department.

"It's not Christmas in a cup," she muttered, "but it will do."

"No way. You're gonna have to get a new pathetic assistant. I'm going back to regular iced coffee," he told her, watching her wrinkle her nose at the thought of _anyone _drinking iced coffee. She was too busy gulping down the caffeine, however, to toss back a witty rejoinder. He was spirited this morning, which she knew was unusual. Andrew had always come to work clean and pressed and ready to go, and yet Margaret had long been aware of the fact that he was not what one might be tempted to call a morning person.

"You're in a good mood."

"I woke up next to a beautiful woman." He placed a plate of eggs in front of her. "That tends to put a guy in a good mood."

Margaret lifted her eyebrow and glanced down. Andrew smirked at her as she peeked, unashamed.

"I knew you looked," he said after a second, turning back to the pan to make his own eggs.

"Just for a second," she muttered into her cup, flushing. Why did he always drag that up? And in the morning? But it seemed to make him happy enough. He was grinning to himself as he scrambled a second batch of eggs.

"So, what are the plans for the day?" he asked her. Margaret shrugged.

"Work?" she suggested, almost hopefully, and Andrew stared at her, his expression almost completely blank.

"Work? That's your idea of a good time on your day off?"

"Andrew," she said, finally setting her mug down. "Before you and I got engaged, I didn't _take_ days off."

"I noticed. I didn't either. Thank God we got engaged. I was getting burnt out."

Margaret looked for something to throw at him, but before she found anything, he was sliding into the chair across from her with his breakfast. He dug in with gusto, and she wondered when they had traded places, and _he_ was the one all gung-ho early in the morning.

"I had a thought," he said, eyeing her carefully as he ate. Margaret motioned that he should continue, her mind already on the manuscripts sitting on her desk from the evening before. Andrew set his fork down and stared at her, sensing her full attention wasn't on him. But he spoke anyway.

He said, calmly, "I think we should get married today."

And Margaret choked on her fresh sip of coffee.

* * *

"Why today?" she asked once they were dressed and showered. Andrew was shaving -- shaving, in her bathroom. She wasn't sure she was ever going to get used to that. He looked at her in the mirror, then rinsed his face off and dried it. He turned toward her, his expression unfathomable, but she could tell that he was slightly hurt by her reaction.

"Why not today? I'm just talking about the civil ceremony and the papers. We can have the real ceremony whenever you'd like, but I'm sure my mom's hoping for Christmas in Sitka."

Margaret realized that Andrew had been hoping for the same thing. And she didn't necessarily have a problem with that, but…

"So why not wait until December?"

"This way we know for sure they can't send you back to Canada. And anyway." He turned away from her, cleaning his razor and very carefully placing it in the medicine cabinet. "I thought it sounded…kinda…"

"Romantic?" she suggested, and he shrugged. "Andrew, it _is_ romantic."

"It's fine, Margaret. We don't have to do it today," he told her, and that effectively ended the conversation. He moved around her and disappeared into the living room. Margaret watched him go and knew somehow that she'd failed a test of some sort.

So she called the courthouse. And her lawyer. And a couple of people in Andrew's cell phone. And she came to him when everything was arranged. Sitting, she took his hand and said, "We're doing it. At three."

He glanced at her, surprised. "You didn't sound like you wanted to," he said, almost petulant.

"I want to," she told him, firm. "We have witnesses, too, to make it all official."

He nodded, and looked relieved. And then, as she was about to get up and check her email, he grabbed her and crushed her to his chest. And Margaret, unused to such gestures, couldn't do anything but hold him back. She felt a frog in her throat and realized, really realized, how much he loved her. It still seemed improbable, after their history. But he really, truly wanted to be her husband.

* * *

Margaret stood in the shower and stared down at the simple ring on her finger. Andrew had promised her a proper one when they had their ceremony -- and privately she agreed with him about Sitka at Christmas -- but for now this was her wedding band. It gleamed and flashed in the water, and she hadn't realized she'd been standing there for long enough to attract attention until Andrew knocked quietly.

"Do you want me to stay again tonight?" he asked. "Or are you too busy drowning yourself with the showerhead?"

"Yes," she said.

"Oh. The tub would probably be easier," he told her, and she rolled her eyes.

"I meant yes, stay, Andrew."

There was a pause. "I knew that."

"Yes, I'm sure you did."

He retreated and Margaret climbed out of the water, patting herself dry for the second time that day. New York was hot, even as fall began to envelope the city. She was glad to be clean again, and she pulled on comfortable clothing before she joined her husband -- her _husband_ -- in the living room. She sat next to him, and his arm found its way around her shoulders, and she thought, _I'm married._

"You okay?"

"Yes," she said, and turned to smile at him. "Hubby."

He laughed, startled by the endearment. "Good," he said, and after a second added, "Wifey."

She shuddered at the term and he laughed again, more certain this time. She settled herself more comfortably against him, still adjusting to the fact that she could touch him this way, whenever she wanted. She was also still adjusting to his unabashedness about changing in front of her. He had no shame, he'd even do it in the living room, and she really was trying to get past the alien feel of it to enjoy the show, because he _was_ beautiful. Just this morning he had caught her looking at him.

He'd paused, still naked and halfway through the process of pulling a shirt on. He'd stared at her as she looked at him, and her cheeks glowed brighter.

"I want you to look, Margaret," he said with low intensity. She felt his words way down in her toes, and she squirmed a little in embarrassment. "I'm your fiancé."

"Yes," she'd agreed, distracted by the miles of his golden skin, and the flawless muscle tone of his chest and abdomen, and though she'd never gone for the younger guys before Andrew, she had to admit she was beginning to understand cougars a little better. He was beautiful, and fit, and the way he looked at her made her feel like she was in high school again, before her parents' accident, wanting nothing more than to make out in the back seat of a car.

Things like that took some getting used to. But she could, she felt up to the task. And he was coming around to it much easier than she was. He squeezed her shoulders as if to prove it. He leaned over and brushed a kiss over her lips, as if sensing her uncertainty.

"I love you," he said, a simple declaration.

"I…Love you too," she said, and his smile broke on her like the sun through the morning mist. It took her a second to realize it was the first time she'd said to him. He kissed her again, and she sat next to him, stupefied again. But she really did love him. She just hoped he wouldn't think she was slow, the way he kept knocking her senseless with such small things.

"Margaret Paxton," he said, and Margaret glanced at him. Then a slow smile spread over her lips.

"Margaret Paxton," she repeated, rather liking the way it sounded, if she was honest.

"Andrew Tate?" He lifted a brow. She smacked him with a pillow.

"Margaret Paxton," she insisted, and he laughed and gathered her into his lap to give her a proper squeeze.

"I love you, Margaret Paxton," he said, kissing her nose. And Margaret, this time not having to try and relax, wrapped her arms around his neck, threaded her fingers into his hair.

"I love you, Andrew Paxton." It was becoming natural to say it, and that made her happy because it made him happy. Then she pinched his shoulder. "I _did_ see you. _All_ of you."

Andrew laughed and pinched her bottom. "I _know_," he replied, and winked. "Let's go to bed, Mrs. Paxton."

She let him lead her to the bedroom, her hand tucked into his. As he drew her close to kiss her again, she peeked at the bed, a wicked smile on her lips.

"What?" he asked, distracted by the curve of her neck and shoulder. She tilted her head and let out a low laugh as his lips moved over the skin there.

"I was just thinking maybe we should have Gammy send us that blanket."

Andrew pulled back to look at her, shocked, and she took advantage of his slack jaw to kiss him. After a moment, he got over the initial shock and returned the kiss with enthusiasm. But after another moment, he pulled back again.

"I could, you know," he said.

"Could what?" She was distracted now, this time by his shirt.

"Have her send the blanket." He grinned at her and she smacked his chest.

"Not if you ever _actually_ want to make babies," she said, and laughing, he took her to bed.

* * *

"She's tiny," Andrew said, watching his daughter curl her little fist around his pinky. Margaret leaned back, exhausted by the ordeal of giving birth.

"They usually are," she said, and he leaned over to kiss her. Then a devilish smile crossed his lips.

"We didn't even need the blanket," he told her, sounding smug, and Margaret groaned, her head flopping back against her pillow.

"Just lemme hold my daughter," she said, holding out her arms for their little girl. Andrew passed the baby over, sitting even closer to his girls on the narrow hospital bed. Then he produced a small box.

"What's this?" she asked, taking it with a hand, careful not to disturb their newborn.

"Well. It _is _our nine-month anniversary. There are a couple more for the baby with mom and dad and Gammy, but they can wait in the waiting room until you're feeling a little stronger."

"It's not our anniversary for another two weeks," she reminded him archly, and he laughed and shrugged.

"Close enough," he said, and wrapped his arms around them both. Margaret closed her eyes, glad the birthing was over, glad that Andrew was there with his arms around her. She opened them after a minute and said,

"Love you, daddy."

And he gave her the most brilliant smile she'd ever seen. He replied, "Love you too, mommy."

Mommy. Margaret looked down at her daughter and thought, _Yes, I can get used to that. _And she promptly fell asleep, safe and surrounded by her little family.


End file.
